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The Elf of the Rose

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Les contes d'Andersen font partie de l'imaginaire collectif. Les œuvres de Hans Christian Handersen traversent les âges et les générations sans prendre une ride, ses récits sont classés comme des œuvres indémodables, intergénérationnelles et presque intemporelles. Youscribe vous propose de plonger dans un univers fascinant mêlant le rêve, l'émotion et le suspense avec près de 140 histoires de légende telle que la princesse au petit pois, la petite sirène, le vilain petit canard et bien plus encore ! Il ne tient qu'à vous d'entrer dans ce monde merveilleux et palpitant...
Hans Christian Handersen fairy tales are considered to be a necessary and inevitable passage in literature’s general culture/knowledge. Andersen’s work has always been an inspiration for children and grown up’s, his imagination and the relevance of his stories made him an author whose legacy will remain through ages and generation. With almost 140 legendary tales such as The Princess and The Pea, The Little Mermaid and The ugly Duckling, Youscribe invites you to /consult, download and read through the great mind of the legendary Danish author. So feel free to come and discover this fabulous and thrilling world
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The Elf of the Rose
Hans Christian Andersen
I
n the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in the prettiest of all the roses lived
an elf. He was such a little wee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the rose
he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful as a little child could be, and had
wings that reached from his shoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his
chambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were the blushing leaves of the rose.
During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew from flower to flower, and
danced on the wings of the flying butterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many
steps he would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on the leaf of a linden-tree.
What we call the veins on a leaf, he took for roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for
before he had half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his work too late. It
became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew; so he thought the best thing he could do would
be to return home. He hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed up, and
he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor little elf was very much frightened. He
had never before been out at night, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm rose-
leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end of the garden, he knew there was an
arbor, overgrown with beautiful honey-suckles.The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he
thought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the morning. He flew thither; but
“hush!” two people were in the arbor,—a handsome young man and a beautiful lady.They sat side by
side, and wished that they might never be obliged to part. They loved each other much more than
the best child can love its father and mother.
“But we must part,” said the young man; “your brother does not like our engagement, and therefore
he sends me so far away on business, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet bride; for so you
are to me.”
And then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and gave him a rose; but before she did so, she
pressed a kiss upon it so fervently that the flower opened. Then the little elf flew in, and leaned his
head on the delicate, fragrant walls. Here he could plainly hear them say, “Farewell, farewell;” and
he felt that the rose had been placed on the young man’s breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The
little elf could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young man took it out as he walked through
the dark wood alone, and kissed the flower so often and so violently, that the little elf was almost
crushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot the lips of the young man were, and the rose had
opened, as if from the heat of the noonday sun.
There came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He was the wicked brother of the
beautiful maiden. He drew out a sharp knife, and while the other was kissing the rose, the wicked
man stabbed him to death; then he cut off his head, and buried it with the body in the soft earth
under the linden-tree.
“Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten,” thought the wicked brother; “he will never come back
again. He was going on a long journey over mountains and seas; it is easy for a man to lose his life in
such a journey. My sister will suppose he is dead; for he cannot come back, and she will not dare to
question me about him.”
Then he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with his foot, and went home through the
darkness; but he went not alone, as he thought,—the little elf accompanied him. He sat in a dry
rolled-up linden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree on to the wicked man’s head, as he was digging
the grave. The hat was on the head now, which made it very dark, and the little elf shuddered with
fright and indignation at the wicked deed.
It was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached home; he took off his hat, and went into
his sister’s room. There lay the beautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom she loved so, and
who was now, she supposed, travelling far away over mountain and sea. Her wicked brother stopped
over her, and laughed hideously, as fiends only can laugh. The dry leaf fell out of his hair upon the
counterpane; but he did not notice it, and went to get a little sleep during the early morning hours.
But the elf slipped out of the withered leaf, placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and told
her, as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place where her brother had slain her lover,
and buried his body; and told her of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.
“That you may not think this is only a dream that I have told you,” he said, “you will find on your bed
a withered leaf.”
Then she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears she shed! and she could not open her
heart to any one for relief.
The window stood open the whole day, and the little elf could easily have reached the roses, or any
of the flowers; but he could not find it in his heart to leave one so afflicted. In the window stood a
bush bearing monthly roses. He seated himself in one of the flowers, and gazed on the poor girl. Her
brother often came into the room, and would be quite cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she
dare not say a word to him of her heart’s grief.
As soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house, and went into the wood, to the spot where
the linden-tree stood; and after removing the leaves from the earth, she turned it up, and there
found him who had been murdered. Oh, how she wept and prayed that she also might die! Gladly
would she have taken the body home with her; but that was impossible; so she took up the poor
head with the closed eyes, kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the beautiful hair.
“I will keep this,” said she; and as soon as she had covered the body again with the earth and leaves,
she took the head and a little sprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood, near the spot where he was
buried, and carried them home with her. As soon as she was in her room, she took the largest flower-
pot she could find, and in this she placed the head of the dead man, covered it up with earth, and
planted the twig of jasmine in it.
“Farewell, farewell,” whispered the little elf. He could not any longer endure to witness all this agony
of grief, he therefore flew away to his own rose in the garden. But the rose was faded; only a few dry
leaves still clung to the green hedge behind it.
“Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes away,” sighed the elf.
After a while he found another rose, which became his home, for among its delicate fragrant leaves
he could dwell in safety. Every morning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and always found her
weeping by the flower pot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine twig, and each day, as she became
paler and paler, the sprig appeared to grow greener and fresher. One shoot after another sprouted
forth, and little white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly kissed. But her wicked brother
scolded her, and asked her if she was going mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over
that flower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed eyes were there, nor what red
lips were fading beneath the earth. And one day she sat and leaned her head against the flower-pot,
and the little elf of the rose found her asleep. Then he seated himself by her ear, talked to her of that
evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of the rose, and the loves of the elves. Sweetly she
dreamed, and while she dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit was with him
whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened its large white bells, and spread forth its sweet
fragrance; it had no other way of showing its grief for the dead. But the wicked brother considered
the beautiful blooming plant as his own property, left to him by his sister, and he placed it in his
sleeping room, close by his bed, for it was very lovely in appearance, and the fragrance sweet and
delightful. The little elf of the rose followed it, and flew from flower to flower, telling each little spirit
that dwelt in them the story of the murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the earth
beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister. “We know it,” said each little spirit in
the flowers, “we know it, for have we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the murdered one. We
know it, we know it,” and the flowers nodded with their heads in a peculiar manner. The elf of the
rose could not understand how they could rest so quietly in the matter, so he flew to the bees, who
were gathering honey, and told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to their queen, who
commanded that the next morning they should go and kill the murderer. But during the night, the
first after the sister’s death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed, close to where he had placed
the fragrant jasmine, every flower cup opened, and invisibly the little spirits stole out, armed with
poisonous spears. They placed themselves by the ear of the sleeper, told him dreadful dreams and
then flew across his lips, and pricked his tongue with their poisoned spears. “Now have we revenged
the dead,” said they, and flew back into the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the morning
came, and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with the queen bee, and the whole
swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him. But he was already dead. People were standing round the bed,
and saying that the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then the elf of the rose understood the
revenge of the flowers, and explained it to the queen bee, and she, with the whole swarm, buzzed
about the flower-pot. The bees could not be driven away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and
one of the bees stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot fall, and it was broken to pieces.
Then every one saw the whitened skull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And
the queen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge of the flowers, and of the elf of the rose
and said that behind the smallest leaf dwells One, who can discover evil deeds, and punish them
also.
(1839) - EnglishTranslation: H. P. Paull (1872) - Original Illustrations byVilhelm Pedersen and Lorenz Frølich